Self Help to Self Harm: The Dubious Guide to Life, Love, and Relationships

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This is an excerpt from a silly little book I wrote called Self Help to Self Harm: The Dubious Guide to Life, Love, and Relationships. You can find it on Amazon. But save your money, a lot of it can be found here on this site. I suck at self promotion. It’s okay, because I’m so good everything else. I’m kidding.

Men, what you need to know about women:

1. We women like to be taken, but not in a way that requires our fathers to bring out their particular set of skills. You know, the ones they have acquired over their long career. No, we want be taken up against the wall, on the dinning room table, the bathroom counter, on your desk, etc. We love to feel wanted and desirable. Dominate us in the sexiest way possible.

2.Tears are not a sign of weakness. It’s OK to be sensitive (unless you’re crying because you have nothing to wear, or you missed a “Real Housewives” episode)

3 There are two places tighty whities belong, on babies, or in the trash.

4. The vacuum cleaner and mop will not bite you. Go ahead, try them on for size. I dare you.

5 Sometimes all we need to hear is “No, honey, let me do it.”

6.Cologne is sexy, but no need to bathe in it.

7. A kiss on the hand at the right time can be quite lovely, at the wrong time, equally as creepy.

8. By all means, be the man in the relationship when it comes to killing bugs, or opening jars. We don’t mind.

9. However, never tell us what to do. EVER!

10. We want to be your muses but not in a sleazy photographer kind of way. We long to bring out your inner Shakespeare, not Larry Flynt.

11. Withhold nothing. We need to know where all the carbon goes, and why prime numbers remain a mystery. I’m looking at you, Riemann hypothesis. Why is it all so weird? Oh, and everyone you have ever dated, and what you had for lunch, and how your day was, and what your brother said on the phone. Etc
.
12. Your mother was right, manners matter. Prove to us chivalry is not dead.

13. Please don’t tell us to calm down. You calm down!

14. I mentioned this last time but felt the need to reiterate, no, we do not want to see a picture of the little engine that could. Keep it wrapped up, buddy, until sexy time (which reminds me, never call sex, sexy time.)

15. Just because your friends might find us appealing doesn’t mean we want to to be with them. (unless your friends are Timothy Olyphant or Jon Stewart)

16. Please talk about your feelings. We want to know what’s going on in those heads of yours. However, we don’t have to have a come to Jesus meeting or an Oprah moment.

17. Douchebaggery is never a winning look. Wear compassion and humanity instead.

18.There’s nothing hotter than a man with tools, unless it’s a man with a book.

19. We like wearing your old college sweatshirt or sleeping in your t-shirt. Prepare to share. It makes us feel close to you.

20. All we need is affection, attention, love, chocolate — and a guy with a big…………………………………………………………….

brain.

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Gravity

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From a distance
I make out his shadow.
My eyes cling to the bruised
way he stands.
Below him lies a sunlit garden.
Green, luminescent.
The dew is so heavy it must sit down.
The breeze feels like a hopeful lover.
There’s nothing I don’t see in him.
Beauty’s edge.
The tip of grace.
The hint of masculinity.
He’s in my misshapen skull,
below the skin.
I’m drawn to his sensual gravity
I wish fabric away on a four
leaf clover.
Under his clothes I’m bare
I plummet. I fall for-
toward his sexy order,
Shifting heat, molten.
Release is found on impact.

-Tosha Michelle

My cover of “Million Dollar Man”

Listen to “Million Dollar Man” Lana Del Rey Cover (piano and vocals) by Tosha Michelle 2020 #np on #SoundCloud

Upon Trying to Write a Happy Poem

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The poet wanted to write
a happy poem,
something summery.
But as soon as she wrote it down,
the words, misstated the season,
and cried in that reserved,
closed-mouth way, much like
Southern belles sometimes do.

The poem tried to hold
back the sobs, to submit
to whimsical metaphors.
But it was too besot by sadness,
to enthralled with winter.
The line shuttering.
Finding preservation in angst.

The poet resigned to
the poem’s fate
decides it’s better
to pull the blinds down,
cultivate the poem’s sickness,
reside inside blue.
Feed the pen the toxins.
Knowing the poem
doesn’t want the elixir.
It only finds artistry
in the pain.

-Tosha Michelle

Abstract art by Brat Inc aka Me.

And today its been…

The Soul Collects Thorns

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The soul collects thorns.
The heart hoards regrets.
The mind feast on memories.
The rose profligates.
We were a mutation,
a fender bender, a war
yet some piece of you lingers
in me and I won’t give it back.
The shrapnel remains in the wound.
Think of the stain
that never comes off a shirt.
The burn mark on an empty pan,
left too long on the stove.
Just because we’ve had more than we could take
doesn’t mean we wanted too much.

-Tosha Michelle

My cover of “Love Yourself”

Double Life.

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Remember when our nights mingled?
We paid our hours
in caresses and sighs.
The ache and the savor.
Our bodies a map of hunger?
We were red and blue
in equal measure.
Then we put desire away.
Photograph ourselves into today.
The clasped heart in a closed bird cage.
Clothed in yesterday’s what might have been.
Colorless. Now when people look at us
I wonder if they know
we are inside who we used to be.

-Tosha Michelle

Upon Missing The Train

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You thought you were at an impasse,
a standstill. But that was just your heart
slowing down to acknowledge the pain

You don’t realize there are worst things
than missing the train, busting
your knee, the morning wasted.

Running from your past.
Drowning your demons in gin and pills.

You prefer a prescription pad
to a subscription to pain.

Widowed from your feelings.
You crave the next fix.

Anything to get you where
you’re going.

You look for a treasure map
scrawled in a dome of stupor.

Where the winds remain static
and the gravel never get stuck
between your toes.

You swim in a diluted river
by trees that don’t shrink or grow.

Nature weeps for the despondency of you.

I weep for the unlived life beneath you.

-Tosha Michelle

La Literati

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Hello, lovely ones. Yesterday, I posted a poem a day early to make room for today’s post. As some of you know, I host a literary podcast with my friend, Niles, called La Literati. We feature established authors, as well as up and coming writers.

Tomorrow, at 2 p.m. Eastern Standard Time, we will be celebrating the work of three talented WordPress bloggers. Information is below.

We plan to make this a regular part of our show. If you are interested in participating in the future, please get in touch via my contact information listed on this site. We would love to hear from you.

About the writers:

Geetha-
Geetha Balvannanathan Prodhom is an Indian writer born within a multicultural family and raised between India, Tunisia, Europe and the Middle East. She writes poetry in English, French and Arabic and has published a collection of French poems in 2011 with another collection of poetry in English to be published in 2016. A fervent admirer of the Japanese art of Tanka and Haiku since 2010 and writing her own Haikus in English, French and Italian since 2014, she also writes short novels in English and in French on the themes of human feelings and interaction. She is currently working on a manuscript in English depicting the varied life she has led. Her blog is:

https://geethaprodhom.wordpress.com/

Deb-
Debra (D.S.) Levy is a writer of short stories, flash fiction, and essays. She’s had work published in the Alaska Quarterly Review, Columbia, Little Fiction, The Pinch, and others. Although she’s never considered herself a “poet,” she believes that whatever she’s writing has always begun with a poet’s concerns — concision, compression, sound, and the desire to capture moments of being. Since blogging at C-Dog & Company, she has begun (shyly) to share some of her free verse. You can find her
blog here:

http://cdogco.com/

Christian-
Christian Marc is a writer and blogger born in New Jersey, who lived in L.A., but is currently moving to Seattle. He is a two time recipient of the Montgomery Burns Award for Outstanding Achievement in the Field of Excellence. He blogs at:
http:complainingisanartform.com/

You can also find my friend and cohort’s blog here:

Niles-
http://jamesdennard.com/

Link to tomorrow’s show:

http://www.blogtalkradio.com/laliteraticarpelibrum/2016/01/20/la-literati-welcomes-three-talented-writers-and-friends-to-our-show

On an entirely different note. Rest in peace, Glenn Frey.

Stratospheric Eyes

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For David and Jen and Tony and Jersey girl 

Tonight I feel more alone than the moon
overthrown by the clouds.
I take solace in the rain, the sway of the trees
being shaken out like a well loved blanket by the wind.
I know you are out there under the horizon. We’re on the same Earth.
The moon plays peekaboo with you too.

I understand how time zones float like helium balloons across the globe.
But the sky and this poem know how much I want you here.
I want to look at you
and mark how time changes you,
as it changes us.
I want to love you up close.

It’s true as you say, distance doesn’t define love, we do.
We always find each other. I look up at the sky,
just in time to see the moon sneak through the clouds.
It whispers to me in sibilance.

For a moment you come closer. Comforted by the knowledge of you,
I speak to you in trees and air.
The gray eyes of the night translates my love diction,
as the Milky Way pours itself over two lovers
swept up on a star yet to be named.

-Tosha Michelle

Upon Hearing of Your Passing.

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Years from now when I read of your passing, I won’t imagine you in some abstract place. I want to picture you where you were the happiest- by the stream, where the ocean is never far, with book in hand, countless chapters, and no one to interrupt you.

Relaxing under a cerulean sky, blue-winged birds soaring.
The years, an heir to what was, golden, swinging light
as a breeze on an olive branch. The sky opening in their final valediction.

The sunlight dusting your hair, the fringe of grass.
The water from the stream flowing upward against the backdrop
of an eternal, carefree day.

The wisp of yourself pouring into the syntax in front of you. Words open again and again. Never taking back what they promise.
A thousand words to sustain you. Peace hemmed cover to endless cover.

Paused on the footnote of the page, you look up. Freedom in your gaze. Liberation in the moment. How still you are. How content. The words happening here. You look back down: your finger in the book. Your heart still, attuned to the glimmering of the stone.
The precipice attained.

-Tosha Michelle